Not Shy of a Spark
by AquaFontem
Summary: I come up with more ways to procrastinate trying to pass my exams, by creating a collection for my Sherlolly one-shots and prompts.
1. Chinese Food

**I wrote this ageeess ago for the Sherlolly Writing Challenge 2014 (there's a lil' hint for how long it's been), but I decided to transfer some of the stuff that has previously just been on Tumblr (AquaFontem ;P) over here. So naturally, this fluffy little thing would be the first. **

**At present, I only have three that I like enough to put here, but I would like to write more, so please do send me prompts for stuff you'd like to see. **

**Until then, I hope you are having a wonderful day, because I am sure that you, wherever you are, deserve it. **

_**Prompt: Molly calls Sherlock over to her flat, and Sherlock rushes over, thinking it's an emergency. When he arrives, concerned, she tells him to simmer down, because she only wants to have a movie marathon with him… **_

It's been ten minutes.

His phone is still silent; the screen desolate, no matter how convulsively he clicks the home button.

He is fidgeting in the back of the cab, glaring at the back of the driver's head as if it could will him to go faster, praying that Molly Hooper can hold on until he gets there.

He was composing when he got the text, but the first few bars of Chopin's Nocturne broke his concentration immediately, something that happens every time her ringtone sounds.

It had been vague, the message, summoning him to her flat without preamble, the insipid smiley face that she usually signed off with alarmingly absent. He'd frowned at his phone, slightly concerned to receive that from a woman who only texted him to let him know what time she'd be bringing a tongue round.

**It's urgent. **

He was out the door before he'd finished reading, pulling on his Belstaff without bothering to remove his robe, as he threw himself into the first taxi he saw.

Sherlock eyes the road in front of them, frustration coursing through him at the obtrusive red brake lights that are abundant before him, forcing his own cab to ground to a halt.

'Looks like we might be stuck here for a while, mate,' the cabbie swivels around to call through the partition, and Sherlock tries not to bristle at the geniality in his voice, reminding himself that the man has no idea of the seriousness of the situation.

He doesn't reply, his mind working furiously to discern exactly how far away he is from Molly's, before he makes his decision, lurching forwards to chuck a handful of notes into the front.

The cabbie protests, but he shuts up when he realises that Sherlock's paid almost three times the fare, and watches his passenger as he starts running down the middle of the road, his coat billowing dramatically behind him.

xxxxxx

He's out of breath from running when he reaches her flat, but he doesn't rest when he sees her darkened hallway, jamming his spare key into the lock.

Even though every atom of his body is telling him to hurry up, he edges towards her living room, aware that the element of surprise could be invaluable if (he hopes it is merely an if) he comes face to face with an intruder.

A flickering television sends stripes of colour across Molly's burgundy carpet, and he has to force down the panic when it occurs to him that this is the same television that he spent numerous nights watching with her: a privilege to him now that it could never happen again.

He formulated a thousand backup plans in the taxi should he find the flat empty, but he tells himself now that he will have no need for them, because that is the only way he will be able to finish this trek into her home.

His frame hugs the doorway of the sitting room, but he pauses before he takes a tentative step over the threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the relative darkness inside, broken only by the silent face of the newsreader on the TV screen in the corner.

There is no sign of Molly.

Sherlock ruffles his hair in frustration, finding himself in the middle of the room without any conscious effort, checking the windows for signs of forced entry, the carpet for mud residue from foreign shoes, disturbed dust clinging to bookcases and the coffee table: finding nothing.

'Sherlock?!'

He nearly falls over, whipping around wildly as his eyes lock on the figure who had emerged from the kitchen, matching the exact description of his pathologist.

_But that doesn't make any sense… _

'Sherlock! You can't just sneak into someone's flat! You nearly gave me a heart attack!' She marches over until she is craning her neck to look at him, while he tries to figure out if she's real or not.

She does that sometimes, springs up in his mind palace, and he wouldn't be surprised if he'd brought her in tonight to distract himself from the possibility of losing her.

He hasn't said a single word, his face etched with a stricken expression as she stares up at him, her annoyance burgeoning.

'You scared me,' she hisses, poking his chest to get his attention, snapping him back to reality as it confirms that she is the living, breathing Molly, rather than a figment of his imagination.

'_I_ scared you?' His worry is displaced by irritation, as it occurs to him that he has been brought here in such haste under false pretences. '_You_ said it was urgent!'

'Well, the Chinese was getting cold!' He blinks, wondering if he heard her correctly.

'Chinese?' Sherlock is utterly confused, and he hates every moment of it.

'Yeah, I ordered too much,' she says bashfully, her gaze focused on a spot just above his shoulder, 'and I was going to watch some Monty Python, and you told me yesterday that you hadn't seen any of their films, plus you finished your case today and I know you haven't eaten-'

She's babbling, and he finds himself feeling more affection towards her with every word. For a man who experiences less emotion in a year than most experience in a week, it's a lot to take in, and he concludes that the best thing to do is to stop her immediately, cease the words that are making him more human than he ever deserved to be.

So he kisses her, his mouth sealing hers as he pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her slim body, as he should have done the moment he saw that she was all right.

Molly is frozen for a minute before she responds and buries her hands in his hair; her touch soft on the skin of his neck, calming the flush that his panic had created there.

Reluctantly, they separate, but he refuses to let her step away, keeping her close as he brushes a strand of her hair behind her ear.

'Sher-Sherlock,' she stutters, and he traces the blush on her cheeks while he collects himself.

His brain had imploded on impact, and he knows it will take him at least a day to file away the new sensory information that he'd accrued.

But in that moment, he is completely at peace, his quarrelsome mind quieting as she permeates every layer (much later, he'll decide that this is what love feels like).

'You were worried, weren't you?' She asks tentatively, her head tipped slightly to the side as she watches him.

Sherlock nods, pressing his lips to the palm of her hand when he finally relinquishes his grip on her waist.

'Yes, Molly.' He pauses, forcing himself to look her in the eye because he needs her to believe him, to trust that he is being sincere. 'I would be… quite perturbed if anything were to happen to you.'

She raises an eyebrow.

'Perturbed?' The corner of her mouth gives away her amusement, and he quickly learns that Molly Hooper quite enjoys teasing him.

'Fine,' he scowls. 'Annoyed?' She takes a step away, and he murmurs his disapproval. 'Irritated.'

Four steps this time, and she is in danger of crossing into the kitchen, even though the full smile on her face suggests that she isn't as concerned about this as he is.

'Bothered.'

Her back hits the kitchen table, so he follows her, reaching out just as she slips to the other side of the room.

'Saddened?'

His voice is wholly hopeful, placing his hands on the table between them, trying and failing to pin her in place with his eyes.

'Distressed.' She grins at him, her eyes sparkling, but he finds himself less disappointed as she begins to back away again when he notices the direction in which she is headed. 'Very very angry.' She hits her bedroom door with a thud, and he is in front of her in seconds, bracing his arms either side of her head. 'Did I pass?' He asks, his voice barely audible.

She bites her lip, feigning consideration as her nimble fingers push his coat to the floor.

'Only just,' she replies, drawing him in by his scarf to kiss him again. He reaches blindly for the door handle, and they fall back into her room, her legs wrapping automatically around his waist as he slams the door shut behind them.

When they eventually resurface, the Chinese is cold.


	2. Of Trees and Traffic Cones

**For the lovely Liathwen's 221B Fanfic Challenge. **

**Prompt: Helping each other find your missing clothes after waking up, hungover and still a lot drunk from a mutual friend's party and dude why is my underwear hanging from the three?**

**First Line: 'Why are you wearing that?' **

**Last Line: 'That was a bad plan.'**

'Why are you wearing that?'

It was a reasonable question, even if Molly wasn't sure that it was possible to 'wear' a traffic cone, particularly in the way the boy outside her bedroom door was attempting.

He was facing away from her, standing peculiarly still in the middle of the hallway, while she tried to prevent her eyes from straying to his bare backside: an endeavour that, ultimately, proved pathetic.

'Molly, stop staring,' he murmured, jolting her back to reality, which she reentered reluctantly, with reddened cheeks.

'H-How do you know my name?'

'It's written on the door,' he returned absent-mindedly, and her eyes flicked to the whiteboard covered in her curly handwriting, as if she almost hadn't believed that it was there.

'You might not have noticed that,' she said defensively, wishing this stranger with the very nice arse far away.

'I notice everything.'

'Have you noticed that all you're wearing is a cone?' She blamed her confidence on the alcohol that was still in her system from the party of the night before, which she supposed his current state of undress could also be traced back to.

He glanced back at her, his face a picture of irritation, a flash of orange catching her eye as the cone jutted out to the side, but he did not choose to formulate a reply.

Instead, he brought himself closer to a mark on the wall, and she realised that he had been inspecting the hallway, rather than (as she would have done in his place) hurriedly and desperately locating some clothes.

'Are you looking for something?' She asked, after a pause, wondering why she was choosing to ignore the thumping in her head, which was pleading with her to return to bed.

He turned slowly, so that they were face to face for the first time, an incredulous expression etched on his (now obviously to her) handsome features. She thought it rather rich of him to regard her with such unveiled bewilderment: she was not the one relying on a piece of traffic equipment to protect her modesty, after all.

'Do I look like I've lost something?' He looked pointedly from her to the cone- more than once to ensure she understood his implication- and whatever seriousness she'd been able to bring to the situation dissolved, instantaneously. 'This isn't funny,' he said petulantly, in the face of her poorly suppressed laughter, tears streaming from her eyes.

'I-I'm sorry,' the words mingled with her giggles, but she tried to show half their sincerity when she was able to speak properly. 'Would you like me to help you find your clothes?' She could sense that he was tempted to decline, and she wouldn't have minded if he had, as she still wasn't sure what possessed her to offer.

'You might prove useful, I suppose,' his bared his teeth in what she supposed was a grin, before he started down the hallway again, progressing so quickly that she wasn't sure for a moment whether he had accepted her help.

He was nearly at the end of the corridor when she recovered herself, grabbing her keys to lock her door, and following the traffic cone like a ship to a beacon.

xxxxxx

'What were you doing in my hallway, anyway?' She knelt down to check under the pool table in the common room, glancing over at the boy who had introduced himself as Sherlock, who was pulling cushions off a sofa.

'Clueing- uh- looking for clues,' he murmured, moving onto the armchair without replacing what he had upturned. She sighed, and put the cushions back for him.

'What are you: a detective?' She asked scoffingly, but was surprised when he shrugged.

'Something like that.'

So far, they had managed to find one sock (which she'd put in her pocket for safekeeping), and his shirt, but they were keeping the cone until he had his underwear.

'So you're a detective, who's reading chemistry?' Her voice was laced with confusion. 'You're not undercover are you?' She enquired brightly, only half-serious: deciding she hadn't been serious at all when he sighed at her in exasperation.

'No, Molly, I am not undercover. I just… assist the local police sometimes, that's all.'

'Do you expect me to believe that the police asked a university student to work on their cases?' She folded her arms sceptically.

'I never said they _asked_ for my help,' he grinned at her, and she laughed, watching the impossible occur when his face was rendered even more attractive with a genuine smile.

'And are you a help or a hindrance?' Neither of them realised that they had temporarily abandoned their search, standing opposite each other in the centre of the room, as close as Sherlock's protruding… cone allowed.

'A help,' he paused, 'naturally. The force, in my limited experience, is full of closed-minded, unimaginative imbeciles, with very few exceptions.'

'My dad's a police officer,' she said slowly, her eyes fixed on him as he fidgeted awkwardly.

'I-I…' She supposed that he was not someone who stuttered often, which only made his current spluttering more enjoyable. 'I… I apologise… Molly. I don't always-'

'I'm… joking, Sherlock,' a smile spread across her face at the confusion painted over his.

'So your father…?'

'Not a police officer,' she confirmed.

'That was rather evil of you,' he regarded her thoughtfully, the corner of his mouth slowly curving upwards. She only hummed in response, sporting an unshakeable grin.

'I don't think we're going to find anything in here,' she said, all but bouncing towards the door. 'Come on, Mr…' she paused, searching for the phrase. 'Mr Consulting Detective. Let's go and find you some trousers.' She didn't bother waiting for him, the door snapping shut behind her.

'Consulting detective,' he repeated aloud, as if tasting the words on his tongue. 'Not bad.'

xxxxxx

'Are those your…'

'Yep,' he replied, popping the 'p'.

'And how did they get up there…?'

'Absolutely no idea.'

They stood side by side in front of the tree, their necks craned in order to see the red silk boxers dangling from one of the branches.

'You had a wild night, didn't you?' She mused aloud, while he rubbed his neck sheepishly. 'I'm quite interested to find out what possessed you to take all your clothes off though.'

'I'm sure you are,' her gaze snapped to him, narrowing her eyes until he gave up on smirking at her.

'There's no way we'll be able to get them down,' she sighed, oblivious that her defeatism had only strengthened her companion's resolve.

'Not with that attitude, Miss Hooper,' he replied smoothly, dropping the traffic cone firmly to the ground, and ignoring the voice of his brother in his mind, informing him that he was being a show-off.

'Wha-What are you doing?' She asked with unrestrained panic, her hands outstretched and her eyes averted, to protect herself from the co-_shock_.

'Everyone's still in bed,' he said calmly. 'No one's going to see.'

'_I_ can see.' She responded weakly, her eyes wide from the strain of keeping them trained on his face.

'You're studying medicine, Molly, calm down.' It was a good point, and Molly couldn't quite explain why she wasn't putting her clinical training into practice. 'Right, I'll give you a leg up-'

'What?' She found herself flummoxed again: this time for entirely different reasons. He had laced his fingers together, and was looking up at her expectantly, but there was no way she was… 'I'm not climbing up there.' He made a noise of exasperation.

'Why not? You're lighter than me, so you can't very well boost me up; there isn't a ladder in sight; and my pants- which I need very much, by the way- are on one of the lowest branches.' She crossed her arms, adamant. 'Please?' He said the word like it pained him, but with just enough desperation that Molly felt herself relenting.

'Fine,' she murmured, placing her foot in his hands. 'But if you drop me, so help me, I'll…'

Her threat died away with the effort of climbing up the tree, attempting to retain some grace as Sherlock hoisted her up, until she had enough purchase in the branches to maneouvre herself into a straddling position.

She began to edge forwards, towards the underwear hanging from the tip of the branch, but she was aware that the bough on which she sat became more delicate as it went on.

Sherlock was attempting to direct her from below, but she silenced him with a glare: if he wanted to control the situation he should have placed himself on the bloody tree, rather than endangering her.

The funny thing was, she didn't feel all that in danger- was actually rather enjoying herself, and she had to admit that a large part of that was due to Sherlock. She found that she wanted to see him again, which was strange, considering the fact that not many relationships were forged on the basis of forcing someone to climb a tree.

'Molly!' His voice jolted her so violently out of her thoughts that she almost lost her balance, gripping the branch with every muscle that she possessed. 'You should be able to push them off from there.' She stared down at him with all the fire that her eyes could muster (quickly reconsidering her previously friendly feelings), as she believed she had been clear that suggestions were not welcome.

'I'll let them fall to the ground, and you can catch them,' she replied with command, contented when he nodded back rather meekly.

Molly placed herself horizontally across the branch, simultaneously throwing down her dignity, as she reached for the red fabric hanging tauntingly before her. Her fingertip just about met with the waistband, and she nudged it forwards, feeling it snag on the needled wood below it.

The boxers concealed the actual tip of the branch, so when they finally came free it was a surprise to her, her body frozen as she watched them float happily towards their owner.

'Excellent, Molly, well done!' Sherlock called up to her (eagerly putting his underwear on), but her own triumph at completing the job was being quickly replaced with the panic of wondering how in the hell she was going to get down. 'I've got a good idea of where my trousers might be too, and then it'll just be my shoes! You know, I thought you would be a burden, but I don't think I could have done this without y- What are you still doing up there?' If Molly ever reached the ground alive, she resolved that she would smack him.

'How am I supposed to get down?' His eyes scanned the situation thoughtfully, until, finally, he placed himself carefully below her, standing with his arms outstretched. She didn't want to ask, she really didn't, but the curiosity that had got her in trouble so many times before now reared its head again as a comprehensive nuisance. 'So what's the plan, then?'

'Don't be obtuse, Molly. I intend to catch you,' he said reasonably, and for some wild, mysterious reason, she found herself loosening her grip on the tree.

She swung a leg over so that she was dangling above the ground, her hands encircling the branch, which felt spindly, and unsupportive beneath her nervous fingers.

'Come on, Molly, we don't have all-' She chose that moment to release herself, her eyes tightly closed as she hurtled to the ground, remaining that way even as she felt herself collide with something solid.

When she opened them again, she found that he had not so much caught her as acted as a human crash mat, and that, rather embarrassingly, she had managed to pin him to the ground with her body.

Her hands were braced either side of his head, her knees likewise at his waist, and his wide, unblinking eyes were demonstrative of his shock at their sudden proximity.

'Oh my God, I'm so sorry!' She tried to drag herself to her feet, but something was impeding her, preventing her from pulling her body away from his.

'Molly.' He sounded slightly strangled, and her concern for him increased tenfold.

'I must have crushed you! Are you hurt?'

'Molly.' His voice was firmer this time, and it cut through her frenzied worry, forcing her to assess the situation.

Suddenly, she noticed the weight of his arms around her waist- responsible for her difficulty in standing up- and took note of the dilation of his pupils, as they stared imploringly up at her. A wavering hand rose to cup the back of her neck, his thumb grazing her jaw line, and drawing a slight gasp from her just as a large gulp sounded from him. Molly could feel his abdominal muscles contract as he pulled himself up to her, and took pity on him by leaning down herself, until they were inches away from what had been a foregone conclusion, ever since they had both realised how much fun they were having.

'Well, Molly,' he murmured, her eyes slipping shut as he pressed one, teasing kiss to the corner of her mouth. 'That was a bad plan.'


	3. Ancient Symbols

**This just a little something I found on my computer, as part of a case fic that never actually got written. As a result, it's not set up very well, so, for clarity's sake, Molly and Sherlock are in a hotel outside of London in this, and are forced to share a bed. It's harmless fluff really, but I thought I'd post it, because it might make you smile. **

**(NB I thought I'd already posted this (and the previous chapter) to FF but when I checked this morning it had gone missing! So if you've seen this twice on here that's why!)**

When Molly woke that morning, she really regretted getting into bed with Sherlock Holmes.

They'd managed to fuse over the course of the night, and there was barely an inch of space between their bodies.

His chest was pressed against her back, his knee clamped between her legs, and one of his hands had crept under her t-shirt to splay across her bare stomach.

Molly was not unaffected.

He was still fast asleep: his warm breath cascading down her spine as he exhaled steadily. She tingled everywhere from the contact, simultaneously desperate to be free, and hoping that he wouldn't let her go.

Molly looked at the clock on the bedside table, as if the green numbers would morph into a message telling her what to do, forming the words 'stay' or 'go', bleeping urgently when she refused to heed to the latter.

Alas, the 4:00 on the display remained unerringly constant, only serving to taunt her with the information that she could do with a few more hours sleep, even though she knew this was impossible considering exactly whose hand she was clasping against her chest.

Her gaze shot down, and sure enough her fingers were interlocked with Sherlock's, his strong arm wrapped around the curve of her breast where she had presumably dragged it.

Molly slipped her hand out of his, flexing the fingers that were still asleep and sharing a look of horror with the picture of Jesus nailed to the wall. The picture of Jesus that bored into her with disapproval when Sherlock's released hand found purchase on the nearest thing it could find: her breast itself.

She burrowed her head into the pillow, aware that she should be embarrassed, but finding it very difficult considering the growing dampness between her thighs, and the revelation that Sherlock Holmes was _very_ tactile in bed.

It was torture: being this close to him, in so intimate a position that she hadn't dared build this into her (many) fantasies about the consulting detective. It was torture knowing that if he should wake, he would throw himself as far away from her as possible, and likely never speak to her again.

It was this notion more than anything that forced Molly into action. She couldn't lie here idly (no matter how much she wanted to) knowing how awkward it would make him if he found out exactly _where_ he had grabbed her.

She flashed a look at the Jesus on the wall, communicating to him that she had recovered her common sense, before prising both of Sherlock's hands off her person.

She immediately felt cold, and she noticed that he'd managed to push down the duvet so that her entire torso was exposed. The reasons for staying were increasing exponentially, and it took all of Molly's willpower to wriggle away. It was done with an enthusiasm that she didn't feel, and she regretted it instantly when she rolled off the bed and crashed onto the floor, jolting awake the one person that she wanted least to disturb.

'Molly?' His voice was heavy with sleep, and she didn't respond for a while, her face pressed against the carpet with eyes shut tight in the hope that she would disappear. 'Molly, are you all right?'

'Mmph,' she mumbled into the floor, her legs still hoisted onto the bed where they were caught in the sheets. 'No,' she whimpered, and he chuckled, placing his hands on her hips and gently lifting her back onto the bed.

Molly covered her face with her hands when her head met the pillow, peeking through her fingers to see that he was staring at her through the darkness.

'Are you all right?' He repeated, and she nodded, her hands floating onto the mattress, inches from his chest.

'Sorry- sorry I woke you,' she said slowly, the words drifting into the air with her breathing, as if properly enunciating them would break something fragile hanging between them.

His eyes were shutting slowly, and she noticed that his face looked softer than usual, framed even more beautifully by his hair.

'Don't worry about it,' he murmured, dragging the covers back over them both, and instantly making her sleepy.

Perhaps that was why she did it, as her drowsiness began to numb her rationale, making her forget about where she was and who she was with.

Her hand stretched out towards him, brushing a curl away from his forehead as it skimmed his eyes, her hand falling against his pillow at the exact moment when her own lids slipped shut.

At the exact moment when Sherlock's eyes snapped open, the ghost of her fingertip lingering on his temple for a transient moment.

He watched her while she slept, the shadows curving around her cheekbones and the slight parting of her lips, where his eyes were drawn almost every time he looked at her.

He traced signs onto the back of her hand, the one beside his head, inhaling her exhaled sighs as he told her how he felt with the ancient symbols.

Then he turned onto his back, taking her hand with him and resting his fingers on the soft skin of her palm.

Sherlock closed his eyes, listening to her breathing beside him, taking them out of this hotel room as he pretended that every night at Baker Street was like this one.

Sleep wouldn't claim him, so after a while he swiveled his head to look at her, waiting for the shadows to disperse and for morning to come.


	4. Chilled Wine and Cold Showers

**I'm not quite sure what this is. I think the weather is messing with my head.**

xxxxxx

Molly did not cope well with heat.

Her father used to have to select milder climates for their holidays when she was a child, because a single degree over 30 would imprison her indoors for the duration of their trip.

Initially, living in London had not posed too much of a problem, but the temperature had worsened over the past few years, and Molly became more and more thankful that she had chosen a career that necessitated air conditioning.

This year, it was so hot outside that leaving the refreshing coolness of Bart's was something of a chore, especially when the journey home was conducted on the Tube, which was not well-equipped for a heat wave.

Molly sat on the Jubilee Line, in a relatively empty carriage, with the cooler on the seat beside her. It was strange travelling to Baker Street aware that, for once, the blue container was not carrying body parts, but was instead the host of several bottles of white wine.

She could hear them clinking as she wrapped her hand around the handle, and rose from her seat to exit the train.

Sweat beaded at her temples, and down the back of her neck as she made the short walk from the station to 221B in considerable discomfort. Sherlock had texted her to inform her that he was still on a case, so her only plan for the evening was to open one of the bottles of wine, and take a very cold, preferably infinite shower.

She started stripping as soon as she reached the door of their flat, refraining from removing any clothing until after she had closed the front door and climbed the stairs for fear of giving Mrs Hudson quite a shock.

Still, by the time she reached the kitchen cupboard and extracted a glass, she was in only her underwear, and already she sighed with relief at the loss of the layers against her overheated skin.

For once, the spray of cold water that 221B's old plumbing doused her with when she turned on the shower was not unwelcome, and she fiddled with the taps until the almost freezing temperature was maintained.

She continued with her normal nightly routine: washing away the smell of death, applying the more pleasant scent of lavender, before cleaning and untangling the knots in her hair.

The wine turned out to be a pleasing addition to the process, as if it would ensure that the chill spread to the inside of her body, while the water cooled her skin.

Time melted away with the heat, and there was no telling how long she had been in the shower when the shower curtain rustled, and she felt the warmth of fingers ghosting over the small of her back.

She leaned into the sensation of his touch, stepping back until she felt his bare torso against her back, and his arms encircle her waist.

'Barely a five,' Sherlock murmured against her neck, nudging his nose against the spot below her ear, where he said her scent was strongest. She thwarted his efforts to catalogue the components of her perfume when she turned in his embrace, and pressed her lips hungrily to his.

The water continued to fall, now forgotten, as Sherlock had somehow lured her from under the spray with his pillowy lips and wandering hands.

Still, the frigidity of the water was exchanged for the coolness of the shower tiles when he pressed her against them, with such enthusiasm that she forgave him for the furnace-like heat that seemed to be emanating off his person.

'Did you know it's 35 degrees out?' She told him breathily, when his attention shifted further down from her mouth.

'You want to talk about the weather?' He replied, slightly affronted. 'Now?' She grinned in response, and kissed away his scowl, wondering if he had yet deduced just how cold the water was.

Her back slid over the tiles as she raised herself to her tiptoes, creating a shivering sensation as the chill travelled the length of her spine. She sunk her fingers into his hair and angled his head to better reach his mouth, coincidentally bringing him closer to the spray.

It proved easier than she had thought to manoeuvre him until his back was to the shower, although she got distracted on more than one occasion when he did that thing with his tongue.

That thing which was so disarming that she had almost given up on her entire plan, when he took a single step backwards.

'Jesus fucking Christ.'

Molly had never heard Sherlock swear so effusively before, but as soon as the frigid water touched his skin his mouth became fouler than a dead body in a sewage tank.

He had released Molly in his shock, and she stood at the other end of the shower, unable to contain her laughter in the face of his flattened hair and pouty mouth.

'Molly,' he growled, his eyes dark and locked threateningly on hers.

She decided that this was probably an opportune time to escape, as she yanked on the shower curtain and practically jumped over the side of the bath.

Molly could just hear his muttered cursing as she ran to the bedroom, shutting but not locking the door.

After all, the thrill of heat that travelled up her spine at the thought of him following her in here in his stormy mood was rather welcome after her cold shower.

xxxxxx

**Come and find me on Tumblr aquafontem. **


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